


and your hands and knees felt cold and wet on the grass beneath

by HeyItsEmmett



Series: A Submission to A Submission to Reason (And to You) [1]
Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyItsEmmett/pseuds/HeyItsEmmett
Summary: Everything that keeps me together is falling apartI've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over
Relationships: Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Series: A Submission to A Submission to Reason (And to You) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968739
Kudos: 15





	and your hands and knees felt cold and wet on the grass beneath

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Submission to Reason (And to You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/188932) by [thisissirius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisissirius/pseuds/thisissirius). 



He’s on his knees alone in his room the moment Eduardo calls.

And it strikes him, when he’s halfway down and committed, that it shouldn’t be this easy for him to just— _submit._ To go quiet and boneless when Eduardo’s voice pours over his mind like warm honey.

His fingers twitch and tangle in the worn bedsheets, rarely used and rarely washed, smelling of dust and the fabric scratchy. _Uncomfortable._

He wanted to feel the rough fabric of Wardo’s jeans beneath his hands, grounding and familiar, and feel the material pressed beneath his cheek, and the way it would no doubt leave awkward faint red lines for everyone to see. _But most of all,_ he thought, dazedly, distractedly, his mind somewhere else while Wardo spoke over the phone, voice tinny and distant, was that he wanted to feel long fingers tangling in his hair, sliding down and scratching at that perfect spot where his skull met his spine.

“Mark?” The voice is faraway, no doubt thrice repeated, but like all things with Wardo, Mark can’t ignore it. Can’t block it out. “Are you—are you _kneeling?_ ”

He let out some a noncommittal hum and pretended that Wardo couldn’t read him like an open book. Couldn’t read between the lines and hear into the silences to understand that he’s falling apart, and not in a good way.

 _Is_ there ever a good way to fall apart? Stubborn habits bubble to the surface and say, _no,_ there is never a good way to fall apart and that he needed to pull himself together before something humiliating happened. But he can’t stop thinking about long, gentle tanned fingers and blunt fingernails at the base of his skull, melting him like butter, and his hands twist tighter into the sheets.

“I’ll come over, okay? At spring break—”

It was babbling. Worried, panicked, and concerned.

And even though he knew that—

He shuddered.

Shook.

Let out a ragged breath he didn’t know he was holding and pressed his forehead harder into the bedding, his hands clenching and unclenching.

Wardo’s voice was quiet and soft then, gentle and soothing, a balm to an inflamed brain, the phone half forgotten on the right side of his head, close enough for him to just barely hear.

And if he left the room afterwards a little quieter and softer around the edges, a weight off his shoulders? Nobody mentioned it.


End file.
